I reviewed DmC: Devil May Cry for the New York Post. The game is terrific, but because I was restricted to a limit of 500 words I wasn't able to say all I needed to say.

The combat is excellent - that much I was able to write - but it really shines when Dante faces difficult foes from the last third (or so) of the game. Some enemies are only affected by holy weapons; others by demonic weapons. When both confront you at the same time, you'll feel like a god damn crazy Jedi hopping back and forth, hacking and slashing with style. Also, because angelic weapons are, by nature, more suited to crowd control than big, single-target damage, you'll be forced to approach certain enemies with different tactics than you would with, say, a huge, slow, demonic axe, or a pair of heavy lava gauntlets. This game doesn't provide you with variety just for variety's sake.

On the bosses: Awesome in concept, average in execution. Without alarming the SPOILER SQUAD (actually, there are some spoilers in this paragraph), I'll say that the bosses do little to test your abilities. That, I believe, should be the function of a boss battle. It's the exam after weeks of lectures. These DmC fights allow you to completely disregard any sort of combat finesse, and they fall back on the old, gamey boss battle tropes we know and loathe. Still, fighting a potty-mouthed polluter of soda pop, or battling a crazed television personality as he reports on your "acts of terrorism," remain admittedly cool ideas.

Thanks for reading everyone. If you have any DmC questions, or questions about freelancing, ask away. I'm new, but I'll do my best to answer.

Some of you may have taken a recent gander at my blog and noticed... nothing. Absolutely nothing. That's because I've written absolutely nothing for the past month. Perhaps this image is appropriate?

Here's the deal, fellow IGN friends. I love writing about games. I love writing about games so much, in fact, that I hope to make a career of it. And as much as I'd love to spend every day immersed deep within IGN's blogosphere, discussing why Dark Souls is the best, or why Papo & Yo makes me have feels, I can't put all my eggs in one basket. Or whatever that saying is with all the eggs.

It seems freelancing is the best way to break down the barriers to this coveted career, so that's what I'm doing. Pitch ideas, produce quality work, and do that for as many cool publications as possible. It's time consuming, and the inevitable rejection will break my heart, but I'm willing to do what it takes.

What does this mean for you? If you want to read my stuff, I don't expect you to hunt my work down around the web. That's insanity. Instead, if I've written something that I can't repost here verbatim (which is pretty much everything), I'll post a brief blurb about it and provide a link to the original piece.

Again, it's not that I don't love IGN! There's just something useful to be gained when a writer branches out and takes chances with different types of work.

If you'll be at PAX East in March, drop me a line. We can dance if you want to. Hopefully Greg Miller won't have to drunkenly help me (also drunk) into a cab this time.

If there’s a video game that plays to its medium’s strengths more aptly than Dark Souls, I don’t know of it. While not perfect, From Software’s brutal 2011 role-playing game defies typical storytelling conventions, instead demanding that players actually learn how to inhabit its world. You don’t just navigate the dreary land of Lordran; you master it.

The recent announcement of Dark Souls II at the annual Spike Video Game Awards spurred me to complete yet another playthrough of my favorite game. It’s still as engaging as ever, a trait that I attribute to its unyielding adherence to certain principles – principles which I hope to make clear here.

In November, Edge Magazine revealed its Ten Commandments of Game Design, which it claims can improve any game. I won’t be so bold as to say that these principles of Dark Souls can be applied universally, but they are, I think, worth exploring.

So, let’s get started. Here are five reasons why Dark Souls is a game unlike all others.

1. The world is a participant.

An environment should not just be the place in which a story unfolds. It should be an active participant, influencing your actions and reflecting your choices. Bioshock’s lawless, unshackled, underwater city of Rapture is one example of designers getting it right. The story of Bioshock unfolded there and couldn’t have happened anywhere else because the look, feel, and mood of rapture was purposefully intertwined with the narrative.

Think of all the favelas, marketplaces, sewers, military bases, and bombed-out cities you’ve stormed through. Did they actually matter to you? Or were you just told that they matter by some character whose name you can’t remember?

Dark Souls takes place in Lordran, which is truly the saddest land. Death and decay is everywhere, making the few allies you encounter all the more special. There is eerie beauty to be found in Anor Londo, the stunning city of gods. There is only plague in Blighttown, a poisonous mire of toxins and shoddy woodwork. But variety is just the start.

There is a point near the beginning of the game where you’ll reach a blacksmith. When you find him, you’ll feel like you’re a world apart from where you started. Getting back to that peaceful place would be a monumental task. However, if you explore a nearby church you’ll locate a lift, which descends, taking you right back to where you began. You can then use the lift freely.

With one action, that part of Lordran is infinitely more navigable. You’ve earned your mastery over that area, and, in response, it bows to you. This loop continues throughout the game, rewarding you as you go.

2. It isn’t afraid to challenge the player.

Dark Souls is difficult, but not in the way many people would have you believe. Think about how death is handled in most video games. When I die, it’s typically a fluke. I didn’t turn fast enough. I didn’t land a headshot. I just messed up. I can almost always respawn, approach an obstacle with a similar tactic, and be victorious.

Dark Souls isn’t like that. If you think banging your head against a wall is a good way to deconstruct a building, you’re not going to make it far in this game.

I know the sprawling world of Lordran better than any other environment because I was forced to. To progress, you need to think about enemy placement, you need to think about how they’re equipped, and how that will determine your assault. You need to think about space. Do you have enough room to dodge, or to swing your massive sword? Do you have an escape route if things go bad?

Death is punishing in Dark Souls. You’ll respawn at the last bonfire you rested at, and bonfires are few and far between. When you die you’ll drop all your souls (a valuable currency), and if you don’t reach that spot before your next death, they’re gone forever. Nothing motivates you to mind your surroundings more than knowing that all your hard work is on the line.

Sounds a little more compelling than the near-universal “die and respawn” loop, doesn’t it?

3. Knowledge is your most valuable tool.

We leave so many games with the exact same skill set we had upon beginning them. Think about the last game you played. Was there a heavy-type enemy with a shield? I bet you took it out by either circling behind it, by stunning it (with a flashbang grenade, perhaps?), or by brute forcing your way through it with tons and tons of ammo/magic/whatever.

There was also probably a small, fast enemy type with low health but great numbers. You usually take these dudes out by backing away and using an automatic weapon or something with a wide spread. Was there a boss that had three forms? Did the red barrels explode? DID YOU ATTACK THE GLOWING PARTS FOR MASSIVE DAMAGE?

It’s upsetting to me that we have – just like in the job marketplace of the real world – a set of transferrable skills that we can rely on to get us through most games.

Can you see a trend yet? Dark Souls doesn’t do this. I have people ask me, upon starting Dark Souls, which weapons and armor they should get, and which stats they should invest in, in order to be the most powerful. I always tell them this:

There is no “most powerful” character in Dark Souls. Most games are content to make you powerful by giving you big guns and stronger powers. You certainly do find better equipment and spells, but you are always, always, always, weaker or just evenly matched with your opposition. The most important thing is that you take it slow, learn its rules, and become a master of the game’s systems. This knowledge is far more powerful than any super weapon a developer can so lazily throw into your hands.

4. The multiplayer aspect is unique.

I love playing games with other people, but there aren’t many flavors to choose from. We’ve got competitive and co-op modes, as well as asynchronous gameplay popularized by mobile titles. We’ve got MMO’s too, but that’s about it.

Thankfully, developers of games like Journey, Way and Dark Souls are looking outside the box.

When I talk to people about Call of Duty, a discussion regarding the immaturity of other players is almost destined to follow. When you can hear people’s voices and respond to them, a game is changed. What Dark Souls does is not inherently better, but it is a welcome variation.

Unless you’re playing without an Internet connection single- and multi-player modes are one and the same. During your travels, you’ll find orange signs dotted along the ground. These are messages left by other players. You cannot write your own words, but instead must choose from a large pool of phrases as chosen by From Software. Some of these marks give helpful advice, while others might encourage you to do something dangerous. Before you know the ins-and-outs of Lordran, malicious messages may lead you to death… or treasure.

You also earn the ability to summon other players into your world, and they can help defeat difficult bosses. If you have sinister intentions, you can invade the worlds of others and attempt to kill them for souls or other valuable resources.

I’ve been invaded dozens of times, and my heart still sinks every time it happens. I understand how Dark Souls transforms players into battle-hardened, efficient killers. Having to duel someone as in-tune with this world’s systems as I am is a terrifying prospect, indeed.

5. Story is not separated from gameplay.

This is my number one gripe with most games today. Games are an interactive medium, and as such, the gameplay aspects cannot be ignored. If your gameplay doesn’t serve and reinforce the tale you want to tell, you have failed as a game designer.

One of my favorite games from last year, a point-and-click adventure game called To the Moon, suffered from this syndrome. Kan Gao wrote an incredible love story that I’ll never forget, but the gameplay did nothing to further my understanding of Johnny and his love, River. It was filler.

These cannot be separate systems. We shouldn’t be content to play through chunks of a game, only to be “rewarded” with bursts of story delivered as cut scenes. If you have to rely on cinematics to make me care, try harder.

Dark Souls has one cinematic that sets up the story. That’s it, from a storytelling perspective. Once you enter Lordran, there are only a few cut scenes, and they only play to introduce a boss. There’s no talking; no character interaction.

As you explore Lordran, questions will arise in your mind about the places you find and the enemies you fight. Bits of lore are fed to you in descriptions of items that you find, revealing insight into the world as you go. Who is Bishop Havel the Rock? You won’t know when you fight him, but after defeating him (which is difficult!) you’ll take his ring, and its description will pull back the curtain ever so slightly. Later you’ll discover his armor and shield, and your understanding will continue to grow.

Think about how many games you can just lazily blast your way through, only to reach the cut scene. Your knowledge of Lordran’s characters grows proportionally with how thoroughly you explore it. The more you give yourself to that world, the more you get back.

Clementine is my favorite character of the year. When we first met, I resented her. Or, to be more accurate, I resented what her designers were turning her into.

If Telltale’s adventure game The Walking Dead hooks you, engages you, then you enjoy being emotionally manipulated. This is fine, of course. We consume media to feel and experience things we don’t normally face. But tears spilt or smiles cracked over fiction are engineered by someone behind a keyboard. Someone with ideas and intent.

If you’re luck enough to experience a good story, you’ll never feel the writer’s presence. Instead, the characters, places, and scenarios will fuel the story organically.

Lee, the player’s character, meets Clementine early in the first episode of The Walking Dead. He stumbles into a seemingly abandoned house, lost and confused after a harrowing car accident and a run-in with a zombified police officer. Listening to the answering machine reveals that a family lived in the home, and that the chance of a reunion between the parents and their child is slim. Soon you meet the little girl, Clementine, who’s been hiding in her tree house for several days.

Except you don’t meet a girl, you meet a walking, talking feel-bad-for-me machine. Everything about Clem is designed to evoke sympathy, which feels unreal even in the game’s bizarre and terrifying circumstances.

Imagine for a second that you are tasked with creating a character that players feel compelled to protect. Without putting much thought into it, your mental exercise would likely produce something strikingly similar to Clementine.

These issues alone wouldn't be so damning had they not been used to betray everything great about The Walking Dead. This series has no qualms about making players feel nervous. In fact, I'd argue the game is at its best when I feel the most miserable. There's nothing uncomfortable about your first meeting with Clementine. She trusts you almost immediately, with little hesitation. Heck, she even hands you a weapon.

Imagine if you instead had to coax Clementine out of her treehouse. What if you physically had to drag her out of it? How gross would that feel? Instead, it felt like Telltale was sending me on the longest escort mission ever, and to soften the blow they made the "package" as cute and agreeable as possible. There was no tension or hesitation. It was uninteresting.

There comes a moment where a fellow survivor tells Clementine that she is probably going to die. Furious, you march up and confront him. You argue, with fatherly instincts on full display, that no little girl should have to hear those words. He strikes back with a reality check, saying that her innocence doesn’t belong in this world. Cut her hair short! Teach her how to handle a weapon! These absurd ideas only seem absurd because we still think we live in the real world. We don’t, do we?

So you walk back to Clementine, defeated. She doesn’t want to lose her hair, but she trusts your judgment. When you finish trimming, she feels the back of her head with her hands. She frowns, disappointed. It’s adorable and sad.

You put a firearm in her hands. She can’t shoot a bottle even at close range, but after some instruction she seems to get the hang of it.

You realize that you just turned a little girl into marksman.

Is that a good thing? In this world, it probably is. But isn’t preparing her for this world the same thing as admitting that the old world is dead? That old world that Clem so often asks about. The one with parents and a home and a school. On the word of a stranger, you took actions that further distanced Clementine from her dream.

There is nothing fabricated about this interaction. Sure, a writer created it, but we don’t think about it; we don’t care. A natural co-dependency has formed between you and a little girl. Because she can’t make these choices alone, your actions and decisions will shape who she becomes for the rest of her life.

That is how you make me care about a person. That is how you nurture a bond. After witnessing the magic Telltale accomplishes in later episodes, the visual tricks and clichéd character traits and easy scenarios on display in the first episode feel like a slap to the face.

A quick note: My previous blog post was showcased on the front page of IGN! Thanks for all the comments; I'll be sure to get around to them after class ends tonight. If you're wondering what this post is, it's a reading response to a chapter from Harold Goldberg's "All Your Base Are Belong to Us." His book is an immensely interesting read. These responses have to be kept at a reasonable word count, so I don't really get a chance to explore the ideas as thoroughly as I'd like. Nevertheless, I'll be posting more stuff here in the coming weeks. Thanks for reading!

I know a lot of creative people – writers, painters, and designers – who can turn great ideas into tangible works. I’ve also met several assertive types, able to get what they need even in the most strenuous of situations. The overlap between these two groups is, at least in my experiences, quite minimal. As circumstance would have it, this human hybrid – this mythical mixture – is exactly the kind of person needed to oversee the creation of an aspiring, artistic video game. Unfortunately, it seems a truck load of luck is required as well.

In his chapter regarding Bioshock and games as an artistic medium, Harold Goldberg describes the trials and tribulations that faced Irrational Games, as well as its front man Ken Levine. It is, more than anything else, a well-written but disappointing look into the murky merger of games and business. It is ultimately satisfying because we know the outcome: Bioshock released to critical and commercial acclaim, and it’s one of the few titles we can safely point to as art whenever the naysayers take a swing.

But Bioshock didn’t just happen. It was the result of a perfect storm, and that's scary.

I think there’s a misconception that great minds like Ken Levine can just write a terrific story and wave it in front of publishers’ faces and watch the money pour in. Games are expensive, and thus games are a risk for whoever’s writing the checks. Goldberg describes many times when progress on Bioshock nearly halted. The game went over its budget and, for a while, Irrational had trouble finding a publisher. Business looks like the bad guy here, and maybe it is, but aside from a few anomalies (like Double Fine’s recent Kickstarter success), it’s not going anywhere.

So what does this have to do with art? With games as art? Not a lot, I’d venture to say. Games were art before Bioshock, and they will continue to be. The issue it highlights, however, is that because games are often so cripplingly expensive to produce, creativity can be stifled in favor of proven, marketable formulas. What you think of Bioshock notwithstanding, it was anything but typical of the market. And that was a point of peril for the money granters at 2K. New things are scary because they are unpredictable.

Great game designers like Ken Levine understand games, and the bank doesn’t. Unfortunately, the designers need cash, and to get that cash they might have to sacrifice bits of their projects’ souls. Ken Levine took a stand for games, and for games as art, and he – as Goldberg described – protected his team’s vision like a defensive mother. So, while great design is essential in beautiful, artistic games, I can’t help but wonder how many times a project leader has lost his or her direction because funds were low. And if money is really what’s standing between game designers and the creation of the next great work of art, then I’m sad we’ll have so few ingenious titles to celebrate for the foreseeable future.